


Reactionary Movements

by patster223



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:44:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I, um,” Matt says, shifting a bit closer to Foggy. “I’ve never slow danced.”<br/></p>
<p>“Well,” Foggy breathes. “We can’t have that, can we?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reactionary Movements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [offensiveagentpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offensiveagentpie/gifts).



> Thanks to [softgrungegeiszler](http://softgrungegeiszler.tumblr.com/) for looking this over!

“I never went to prom,” Matt says, and Foggy nearly spits out his beer.

“You never went to _prom_?”

The confession should seem like a non-sequitur, but Matt and Foggy have had a couple of these nights since Fisk’s arrest: ones that included beer, some greasy take-out, and a film that was soon ignored in favor of talking. They did this before Fisk too, but these days their conversations tend to be full of lists: lists of things Matt can do, lists of things he can’t do, lists of things he never got to do.

And apparently one of the items on that last list is going to his high school senior prom, of all things.

“Lots of people don’t go to prom,” Matt says, with the uncertainty of someone who is _fairly_ sure they’re right, but doesn’t exactly have evidential proof.

“Well yeah,” Foggy says. He wipes his mouth and sets his beer down on Matt’s new, not-beaten-to-shit-by-ninjas coffee table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s totally cool that you didn’t go, it’s just prom, but—dude I know for a _fact_ how hot you were when you were 18. You mean to tell me that nobody asked you?”

“Oh, people asked me,” Matt says with a grin, the smug asshole. “But I didn’t want to go. Too loud, and too much…” Matt waves his hand vaguely in a gesture that Foggy is quickly learning means: _my damn supersenses and shit, you know?_

“Besides,” Matt adds. “I can’t dance.”

“ _Oh_ , right,” Foggy realizes. “Guess you wouldn’t have been able to dance without giving away your secret identity, huh?”

Foggy’s pretty sure that he hears Matt mutter _secret identity_ under his breath, but look, Matt’s going to have to own his superhero origin story--and its accompanying terminology--one day, so Foggy won’t apologize. But before Foggy can say as much, Matt speaks again.

“It wasn’t that,” Matt admits. “Or, it wasn’t just that. I mean I _can’t_ dance. I’m horrible at it.”

It’s a good thing Foggy set his beer down, because the force of his skeptical snort definitely would have been enough to upend it. “Yeah right,” he says. “You can backflip off a _rooftop_ , Matt. I’m sure your dancing is fine.”

“It’s not the same,” Matt protests. “You don’t backflip when you dance.”

“Uh, what about in Step Up? And Step Up 2?”

The tilt of Matt’s lips is unimpressed, if amused. “The appeal of those movies is lost on the visually impaired, you know.”

“Don’t even pretend like I didn’t do a _phenomenal_ job explaining the choreography to you. Or, at least Channing Tatum’s abs.” Foggy pulls out his phone and thumbs over to the first playlist he can find. “Alright, Murdock, it’s dance time. You’ve gotta show me these supposedly non-existent moves -- backflipping is optional.”

Matt sighs, perhaps disappointed that Foggy could ever consider backflips to be optional. He tilts his head as music echoes from Foggy’s tinny phone speakers. “Is this…Taylor Swift?”

“I could think of no one better to take your dancing virginity,” Foggy says solemnly.

Matt bangs his knee against the coffee table with the force of his snort, but when Foggy offers a hand, he takes it. He’s even smiling as Foggy pulls him off the couch and into the center of the room.

But then Matt—whom the media dubbed “the man without fear” once they caught wind of his penchant for leaping into the night to punch crime—hesitates.

“What is it?” Foggy says.

“Nothing, it’s just. You’re…watching me.”

Foggy’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of Matt: the way he bites his lip, the way he tilts his head toward Foggy as if asking for direction. God, Taylor Swift was _definitely_ the wrong choice here. As if Foggy needs romantic pop music to remind him of the force of his own pining. He forces himself to speak before Matt takes his silence as an excuse to listen to Foggy’s stuttering heartbeat.

“I can turn around and dance,” Foggy says. “And you can join me when—or if, it’s not really a big deal--you want.”

Matt nods, and Foggy turns around. And even though Matt can’t technically watch Foggy, Foggy feels the full brunt of his attention nonetheless. Matt’s attention is like that: an intense, almost physical force.

It’s no wonder that criminals are so quick to give Daredevil their intel when _this_ is what they’re up against: Matt’s complete and total focus.

But if Foggy were the sort to crumble under that kind of attention, he wouldn’t have survived living with Matt in law school. Hell, he wouldn’t have survived law school, _period._ So Foggy shakes his head and begins dancing to the music.

And yeah, Foggy’s no dancer, but what he lacks in grace he more than makes up for in rhythm and enthusiasm. It helps that he doesn’t have a self-conscious bone in his body either. It’s not long before Foggy loses himself to the beat of the song, swinging his hips and pumping his fist to Taylor’s righteous anger. He nearly forgets that Matt’s there—as much as it’s _possible_ to forget about Matt when he’s near—until he turns around and finds-

That Matt is _exactly_ as terrible a dancer as he claimed to be.

It can’t even be _called_ dancing, not really. Instead, Matt’s just vaguely swaying and jumping to the beat, hands flapping at his sides whenever Taylor reaches a crescendo. No sign of Daredevil’s grace here: no arcing flips, no efficient twists and turns, no careful sidesteps. Where Daredevil is speed and ruthless movement, right now Matt is simply uninhibited joy: grinning and bopping to music like nobody’s watching him.

It’s not as surprising as it should be, when Foggy really thinks about it. Matt’s movement is reactionary at its core. Whether flipping out of the way of a bullet or flailing to music, Matt’s body never hesitates: it simply _moves._

Foggy’s breath catches again just watching him.

And maybe this is something that Matt can hear, because he freezes only a moment later. Foggy suddenly realizes that he’d stopped dancing in order to watch Matt, and wants to kick himself for it. Because now Matt shrinks in on himself, moving back into the neat, economical movements that comprise Matt Murdock: Lawyer By Day, Vigilante By Night.

“I, ah, told you I wasn’t very good,” Matt says with a shrug.

Foggy shakes his head. “You’re amazing,” he manages. He doesn’t quite keep adoration from flooding his voice, but, well—since when has he ever been able to do that, with Matt Murdock?

Matt’s brows furrow. He tilts his head—listening for the lie, the asshole—and frowns. “Really?”

“Uh, _yeah._ In fact, it’s safe to say that it’s a good thing you _didn’t_ go to prom, buddy. Not sure they could’ve handled those awesome moves.”

Matt laughs. “You do—you do know I can tell when you’re lying, right? It’s okay, you won’t hurt my feelings, Foggy. I know I’m not a good dancer.”

“I told you to stop listening to my heartbeat, you creep!” Foggy says, stepping closer so he can playfully swat at Matt’s arm. “Fine, so your moves aren’t awesome in the technical sense. But I love them, okay?”

Matt swallows heavily--Foggy can see it, can see the column of Matt’s throat shifting as he does—and says, “You do?”

“I do,” Foggy says softly.

Matt’s face flushes -- Foggy tells himself it’s from exertion. He hopes that Matt will attribute Foggy’s pounding heart to the same thing.

This would be the time for Foggy to crack a joke, to make fun of Matt, to do _something_ to ease the heated weight that’s settled between them. Only a few inches separate them, but for some reason neither of them step away as a slower Taylor Swift song begins to play.

“I, um,” Matt says, shifting even _closer_ to Foggy. “I’ve never slow danced either.”

“Well,” Foggy breathes, fairly certain now that it’s _not_ just exertion that pinks Matt’s cheeks. “We can’t have that, can we?”

That’s Matt’s cue to step closer, to wrap his arms around Foggy, and hell, maybe to declare his undying love for Foggy while he’s at it, but-

But instead Matt just stands there, and Foggy’s reminded that Matt hasn’t done this before.

“I’m going to put my hands on your hips,” Foggy says gently. “You can put your hands on my arms or shoulders or waist – whatever you feel comfortable with.”

Matt nods, determined: like he’s about to take the bar exam again instead of just dance with Foggy. He tightly clutches Foggy’s shoulders, arms stiff, and—look, Foggy can work with it. Foggy lightly places his hands on Matt’s hips, and smiles when Matt loosens his hold to match Foggy’s.

“Good,” Foggy says. “Now the easy part: just sway, and bask in the T-Swift. Oh, and remember to leave room for Jesus.”

Foggy gives a satisfied grin when Matt giggles -– and fuck, Foggy can _feel_ the vibrations of Matt’s shaking laughter at the points where their bodies meet. He resists the urge to smooth a hand through Matt’s hair, and instead quips, “You think I’m joking, Murdock? This might be your prom night, but I’ll have you know that I am not that easy.”

“Of course not,” Matt says through his laughter. “Foggy Nelson is a man who deserves to be wooed.”

Is that what this is? Is this—the soft words, the gentle hands, the slow dance—Matt trying to woo Foggy? It’s not as if Matt needs to. Despite Foggy’s words, Matt captured his heart from the moment they met.

To be honest, Foggy’s not quite sure what to _do_ with Matt Murdock wooing him, with Matt’s thumb lightly stroking at his shoulder. His hands hold Matt’s hips _so_ gently -– he has no idea what the condition of the skin is underneath, whether it’s pale and scarred or bruised to hell. He keeps his touch light just in case.

Then Matt leans in close and puts his lips against Foggy’s neck. And the thing is--it’s not necessarily a sexual or even sensual gesture. Matt’s tactile by nature -– he constantly strokes the wood of his desk, fiddles with his cane, borrows Foggy’s pens to rub them across his lips. It’s just how Matt focuses himself: through touch.

The sway of their bodies and the light shift of Matt’s lips against Foggy’s neck: this could be the same thing. But then Matt lets out a nearly imperceptible sigh, and Foggy shivers at the heat of Matt’s breath on his skin.

“So,” Foggy says, going for casual and _definitely_ missing the mark. “I would just like to inform you that my heart is _not_ speeding up because you’re almost kissing my neck, but in fact because I’m suffering from acute heart failure.”

“Oh really?” Matt’s lips stretch into a smile against Foggy’s skin.

Foggy swallows, wondering if Matt can feel the motion -– judging by the hitch in Matt’s breath, Foggy’s thinking yes. “Yep. Though, if this _isn’t_ a ‘no homo, just a good old slow dance and neck kiss between friends’ deal, then…now would be the time to tell me.”

“It’s—it’s not. But-”

“But?”

“But…I wouldn’t really call this kissing.”

“Oh yeah?” Foggy says, rolling his eyes. He can’t believe he’s being almost kissed by _this_ pedantic asshole—but then again, it would seem that he’s _Foggy’s_ pedantic asshole. Foggy can’t suppress a smile at the thought. “Okay, what would you call kissing then? I think I need a demonstration. You know, just so I can know the precise definition.”

“Well, if it’s in the interest of precision,” Matt says. He purses his lips so that instead of softly brushing against Foggy, they form a light pressure against Foggy’s skin. Matt’s lips are dry and warm, their touch only momentary -– but it’s definitely a kiss.

Matt pulls back to face Foggy. The grin on his face is electric, bright, contagious -– and it surely matches Foggy’s own right now.

“Do you need more of a demonstration?” Matt says slyly.

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes. “Pretty sure I’ll be needing multiple ones, actually.”

Matt acquiesces and kisses Foggy again, this time on the lips. The kiss is eager, uninhibited, joyous: everything that Matt feels, poured into physical movement. It’s one more motion of Matt’s body that Foggy can add to his catalog -- he can stick it right between the arc of Matt’s body as he flips from a rooftop and the flapping of his hands as he dances to music. It’s easily Foggy’s new favorite movement of Matt’s.

Foggy wraps his hands around Matt’s waist and pulls him closer, still marveling at the fact that this movement in particular is just for him. Maybe that hidden wonder betrays itself in the oil of Foggy’s skin or in the beat of his heart, because Matt pulls away from the kiss in order to rest his forehead against Foggy’s.

“You,” he starts, and then sighs. His hand leaves Foggy’s shoulder to stroke at his cheek. “You _see_ me, Foggy.”

Ordinarily, Foggy would make a blind joke here, but—but he knows what Matt means. He knows how long Matt has hid himself, how few people have even _tried_ to get to know Matt. Foggy’s the only one who’s stuck around long enough to get to see Matt like this: to get to see him dance.

He’s one lucky bastard.

“I know,” Foggy says, nuzzling his nose against Matt’s, relishing the soft hum that Matt gives in response. Foggy’s beginning to focus on those little sounds now—their heavy breathing, the shift of their clothes, their hair brushing against each other’s skin—instead of being overwhelmed by his own, rapidly beating heart. He realizes that his phone has reached the end of the playlist—and probably had some time ago. “No more music.”

Matt shakes his head, his hold tightening on Foggy as if to keep him there. “There is. Tammy is listening to the radio two floors down.”

“Is it a slow song?”

Matt smiles. “Yes.”

“Well in that case: you lead,” Foggy says. Matt’s grip on Foggy loosens—though not by much—and Foggy lets him lead, content to sway to whatever music it is that Matt can hear.


End file.
